THEY CALL ME HURRICANE
ROCKY CALLEN
note: This story references suicidal ideation
1. AIDA
I was born during a hurricane in the back of my parents’ faded blue 1997 Camry on the shoulder of the road. Papi had taken the wrong exit, and I feel like I have been taking wrong turns ever since. I was born in the midst of floods and endless gray and winds that howled past the car that held my mamá howling inside.
Mamá once told me that the rain was the sky’s tears of sorrow, regret, and pain. When I was little, I often sat by the window and watched as the clouds turned dark and wondered why the sky was sad that day. I would curl up and read it happy stories. I would go out on the front stoop and let it soak me through just so it knew that it wasn’t alone. I would sit by the window for hours because I wanted to wait and watch for the moment when the clouds cleared and a stray beam of sunlight would reach for the earth and graze its finger across it.
I wanted the sky to be happy.
Just like I wanted Mamá to be happy.
Just like, soon after I turned ten, I wished I could be happy, too.
Mamá later told me that the sky soaked us through to our bones with its tears the day I was born. Me dio luz when the world was dark and violent. And when the sun finally appeared, we kept the sky’s tears inside our sinew and marrow. Deep, deep inside, where no one could see.
But Mamá didn’t tell me about when I was born until later.
Until it was too late.
Until it made absolute sense.
And that day, I ran out of my house and I screamed at the sky for the curse of its tears. I yelled until my voice strained and my throat ached. I cursed the sky right back until I fell to my knees and begged it to take the sorrow, pain, and regret away.
It didn’t listen.
Instead, when the rain pounded my back and bruised me with its anguish, it whispered for me to be still, to give up and give in to the mud and misery. I
didn’t listen, either.
2. AIDA
Aida “the Hurricane” Maya.
That’s me. Complete with an apodo that I didn’t choose for myself. It was a fighter’s name from years ago, whose story was rife with pain and tragedy and strength. Papi talked about him all the time. But I wasn’t named after him. Coach said the name chose me the day I was born. I cringed when Coach gave it to me a few years ago, and the team hollered with appreciation when they found out that I came screaming into the world during the biggest storm to hit Baltimore in the last two decades. They didn’t know that wasn’t why Coach named me the Hurricane. They didn’t have to know. I have bruises on my knuckles. Calluses on my palms. Cuts that itch. And a left hook that can knock any one of them out even though I am the only girl on the crew. That’s all they need to know.
I don’t open my eyes when the alarm goes off. I’m thinking about what my name would sound like on a loudspeaker before my first big fight. I am thinking if I want to keep it. I fidget with the bracelet of threads around my wrist. Breathe in. I’m here. I’m strong. I got this. Breathe out. Get the fuck out of bed.
I throw the blankets off me, snap my eyes open, and land my feet on the floor.
It’s raining. Of course it is raining.
I shove a middle finger toward the window so that the rain knows I am not here to mess around with its company. I follow my routine. My doc says that routines help on the bad days, and she’s right. It is so annoying when adults in pin-striped skirts, penny loafers, and big, sweet smiles are right. I take the meds on the bathroom counter. Mamá’s pill bottle is still full, but I can’t think about that right now. I count the seconds as I brush my teeth. I stare at the mirror and I remember my best run times, my favorite things about the week before. I dig to find anything that makes me feel solid and steady. Here.
This is part of the routine. It didn’t start smoothly. There’s a hole behind the painting above the light switch to prove it. But over the years, I have carefully c
onstructed a dam inside. A place for all those unshed tears to live, beating against the cement and bone of the barrier. I always feel them, like a levee just one rainfall away from overflowing, but I do what I need to do to stay sure-footed, to be certain my reflexes are quick enough to redirect my thoughts whenever the cruel ones spill over.
I touch my thread bracelet again. It has been 397 days since I have thought about it, 397 days since I added a thread.
I grab my gym bag and head toward the door. I light the candle sitting on the side table with the keys and wilting flowers and leave the quiet house behind me.
Jesé is sweeping when I walk in. He’s only a year older than me. His black hair spills over his forehead and the scar that I know cuts through his left eyebrow. He must have a bachata song playing in his mind because his feet move in step with the rhythm. When he looks up and spots me, he raises the broom in salute. I walk over to him, soaked from the rain, and fake a high five, then wrap him up in a hug instead.
“No manches, vieja. Get off me.”
“What? You don’t want a hug?”
“No! You are getting me all wet!” He’s annoyed. I love him annoyed. “And look at the floor!” He gestures wildly at the water I tracked all over the ground.
I squeeze him three times. Too tight. It’s like I am trying to fit all his bones into the circle of my arms. He relents, frustration defused, relaxes, rolls his eyes, and hugs me back twice. I am about to respond when Coach sees me and waves me over.
“Huracán! Come here, I’ve got news!”
“’Kay, Coach.” I let go of Jesé and whip around fast, making sure my long braid slaps him square in the jaw. He curses as I practically skip away toward the office.
Coach is behind his desk, looking down at a stack of papers. “You did it, mija.”
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
He comes around the desk and grasps my shoulders. “You got the fight.”
Four words. That’s all it takes to snatch the air right out of my lungs. “The fight?”
Coach smiles and nods. “The fight.”
I flop back into the chair. “I can’t believe it.” I look up at Papi’s portrait on the wall with his gloved hand raised after an eleventh-round KO with Coach right behind him. “The Golden Gloves fight.” I was undefeated in my last five matches, but Golden Gloves is the big time. If I won, I could go to Nationals, and if I won there, then international opportunities could open up to me. Those opportunities could lead to glory. To money. To being able to help Mamá. “I can’t believe it!” I jump out of the chair and hug Coach. “I won’t let you down.”
He hugs me back. “I know, mija.”
“She get you wet, too, Pops?” Jesé is by the door.
Coach’s laugh is a rumble in his chest. “Yes, she did!”
“Jes, I got the fight! I’m going to compete in the Golden Gloves tournament!”
His smile takes up almost as many zip codes as my ass, and he cranks up his deep announcer’s voice and uses the broom like a microphone before joining in on the hug. “Ha! The storm is about to hit the GG!”
He is saying something else, but I don’t hear it. Because as I hug them both, I feel it. I feel something sloshing inside me, threatening to spill over. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore it.
But as the day goes on, doubt creeps in. The ugly thoughts start to seep through the tiniest cracks. I make rookie mistakes. I slip and feel unsteady. Please, please, please take these thoughts away. But they only get louder and so does the rain outside, hitting the tin roof like bullets.
Coach is on the phone getting my paperwork set up for the tournament. “Ready for th
is?” He smiles. He knows I am ready for this. To him, I am going places and going to take the gym’s name with me. He believes in me.
But I don’t. Not now.
I start to jump rope. Breathe. Breathe. BREATHE. But my breathing is unsteady and I start to feel a cramp in my side.
I am not ready for this fight. There is no way I am going to step into the ring in front of those judges. Gear is sanctioned by the organizers. I won’t even be able to wear Papi’s gloves. I envision how I am going to get out of it. The lies I will tell. I am too anxious to tell my coach that I am too afraid, that I am too weak, that he should have never taken a chance on me, that . . .
Stop.
Breathe in.
I feel the pressure building and the way my words are turning into violence against me, trying to shove my face down in the mud.
Breathe out.
I got this.
I’m not sure if I believe that. The jump rope skitters to a stop.
Coach slaps me on my back. “That’s right! This storm is about to strike.” Coach was a badass striker himself, but he is also cheesy as hell, just like his son.
He shoves me toward the training ring. “Go run drills with Trent.”
I make my way to the center of the gym. You can only fight one fight at a time. That’s what Coach always says. Usually the focus helps me calm the ragged storm within me. But right now, I feel the fight in front of me and inside me colliding, picking up speed, and I can’t find my footing. Mamá never calls what we have “depression.” She says, “La lluvia vino fuerte hoy, ¿verdad mija?” Like our depression, our brains, have their own weather system. And they did. The winds and rain could change direction at any moment and hit us with a downpour.
I know that the medication helps, the gym helps, the support from my team helps. But there
are days when I am not sure it is enough. I run my thumb over my bracelet of threads before shoving my hands into my gloves and stepping through the ropes.
3. COACH
Coach Suarez remembered when he saw the little girl swing the door open and charge in from the rain all those years ago. Aida. Jesé’s best friend and Pepe’s daughter. She didn’t come to him as she usually did; she went straight to her papi’s training bag, dripping rainwater in her wake, and started slamming her fists against it. She was hitting the heavy bag with every bit of strength in her tiny biceps, like she didn’t want to just punch the bag—she wanted to hit straight through the leather and puncture it with her fist. Like she wanted its sandy innards to spill out and make a mess at her feet. Like she wanted to break something. He watched as her arms, erratic and desperate, wailed on the bag until all of a sudden, her high thin voice was wailing, too. He looked around and saw the boxers stopping midstrike or midexercise to crane their necks toward the girl. He snapped at them to focus on their routines, and reluctantly, they all did. He walked over, quiet and steady, to Aida. She was a fierce, crying thing. All fists and fury.
“Mija . . .”
She didn’t listen. Her cries turned into a growling roar.
“Mija . . .” He reached out to touch her, and when he did, she swung at him. He grasped her shoulders to stop the attack, and in a whoosh, her pinched face streaked with tears, she collapsed onto him, hugging him tight like if she let go, he’d float away. “Shhh, you are okay. You are . . .”
“I’m not okay,” she said. “I’m not okay. I feel this storm inside me.” She looked up at him, afraid. “And I can’t control it.”
Coach Suarez knew that Aida and her mother could slip into days, weeks, months of melancholy. He didn’t understand it, but Pepe had said that they felt like there were too many tears inside them and sometimes they just needed to spill out everywhere and make a mess. Pepe said he would always be there to pull them out of it, to help clean up, to let the light in. Pepe loved his family more than he loved the ring, but then
he was gone, and the little girl and her mother had to face the lluvia—that’s what the mother called it—alone. Aida shook in his arms, and on that day, he gave the girl her papi’s gloves and said, “Then let me teach you to be the storm.”
And he did. She was the most devoted, talented, and passionate fighter he had ever seen. She was focused and disciplined and every strike was calculated. But today she reminded him of that girl who was all heartache. She was there, but not. She was up against the ropes, but it looked like she was fighting some other fight that he couldn’t see. Every time her fist lashed out in a punch, it looked more like a desperate attempt to hang on to something.
He should have stopped the sparring match when he saw her eyes go faraway and glassy, but by then it was too late.
4. AIDA
Coach shouts from the floor, and the sparring match is on. Trent is moving fast, footwork like a dance. Everything feels slow, as if I am unattached from my body. I’m trying to breathe and bob and weave and shift my weight between my feet, but it all feels disjointed, like every part of me is a dead weight that I have to shove into position. Trent throws out a combo, and I barely block it.
“Hands up, Aida!” Coach yells, and him saying my real name throws me off even more. Like I have to think about who he is talking to. I drag my hands up to guard my face. Trent’s next punch lands right on my ribs and knocks the wind out of me. I stumble.
“Eh, you okay?” Trent whispers, still bursting with rambunctious energy. He’s here to win.
Usually I am too.
But with every circle around the ring, I just hear a torrent of words spilling over.
You-will-never-be-enough-you-are-so-stupid-you-are-weak-why-can’t-you-do-anything-right-you-are-pathetic-you-are-ridiculous-no-one-wants-you-you-are-a-failure-why-do-you-keep-trying-give-up-give-in-let-go.
Breathe. Breathe. BREATHE. I shake, angry and overwhelmed. Get into the eye of the storm, get into the calm, look out and see clearly. These words aren’t real. They are lies. They are things I don’t need to hold too close. Let them go. But I can’t and I just hear them getting louder and louder and I feel the resolve of the dam inside me chipping away. ...
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